At Night
by bloodywingtips
Summary: Sometimes, he would just stand there while she would write frantically, as if forcing her hand to keep up with her thoughts; she hardly took much notice of him, but was well aware of his presence." A night in Slytherin. Review, please.


**Disclaimer: I own nada.**

**A/N: Finally, after ages of being mentally dead! This isn't a prequel or anything of that sort. Tell me if it's any good, needs work, you know: the usual stuff. In other words: review! **

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            She wasn't wearing her robe. In fact, with him, she never did. It wasn't a display of indecency or seduction, as the elders were most likely to put it; she simply saw no point in layering herself under so much fabric, when she knew that he would never try anything on her, anyway.

            She was on her bed, scribbling like mad, as she did every night. No one really knew what she was documenting, and most of them didn't want to know, anyway. She bit her lip in fierce concentration as she scribbled madly; her brow furrowed, her eyes squinted.

            When she got like this, her roommates thought it best to leave their chambers, and leave her be for an hour or two. When they'd leave, he'd come, they knew, but paid it no attention.

            Every night, that's how it would go. She would start writing, her roommates would leave, and he would let himself in. She never did seem to mind his presence. In fact, sometimes, she didn't seem to take notice of it.

            Sometimes, they would talk. Others, he would just stand there while she would write frantically, as if forcing her hand to keep up with her thoughts. Those times, she hardly took much notice of him, but was well aware of his presence.

            He stood in the veranda, watching the mist outside weave seductively around the trees and crevices of rock. In his slender hand, he held a crystalline glass, filled with wine. The moonlight played across his features, giving him a beautiful—almost unearthly—glow; his eyes, receiving a warm sort of glitter. Basking in the moonlight, he was a completely different man.  

            He often had his wine glass with him. And, almost absently, he would hold it the way he's always did, with his long fingers tenderly wrapped around the stem, swirling the liquid, relishing in its soft, soothing sound, allowing the moonlight to play with its hue throwing bloody shadows across the room.           

She stole a glance at him, silently awed by the shocking contrast of color between himself and the wine he held in his hand. She marveled at the bloody shadows and the pale glow that filled her chambers.

"Just like Poe," he murmured absently, seemingly transfixed by the sight before him.

            She shut her book and stuffed it under her pillow in one quick motion. She stared at him inquiringly. "Pardon?"

            "Just like Poe," he repeated.

            She didn't respond.

            "Muggle poet," he said, as if it explained everything.

She sat still, momentarily confused, least expecting a reference of a Muggle, one of the many they have been raised to treat with immense distaste. She faltered for a bit, debating on her response, and chose to nod instead, and pretend what he said made perfect sense.

            "Drunken fool," he continued, swirling the wine absently, "starved his wife to death. Went insane with emotional torment, I imagine. Died alone."

            "What's like Poe?" she queried, after a moment.

            He didn't answer.

            They sank back into the comfortable silence, with nothing more than the quiet swishing of the wine rippling the calm. Finally, after a while, he turned away from the landscape and stood by her bed.

            "What were you writing?"

            "Nothing that would pique your interest, assuredly."

            "That's what you always say."

            "That's what you always ask."

            He nodded, and briefly, she remembered her father, and his vain attempts to communicate with her. He would always leave the room, nodding, muttering to himself, that yes, he should have known, at least he tried, she was always—, he never did—.

            "What are you thinking about?" she asked.

            He sighed. "Everything. Nothing. The usual."

            He sighed softly, running his hand through his platinum hair, and eased himself onto her bed.

            "How are you managing?" she asked, leaning towards him.

            "You see me every day."

            "But not every time," she responded.

            "Well enough," he said, and took a sip of wine. "Yes. I'm managing rather well enough." He stood, and paced around the room, in long, clipped sort of steps.

            "Does it get difficult?"

            "Occasionally, yes."

            "Tell me about it," she begged.

            "I'd rather not," he said, taking another sip.

            She studied him quietly for a moment, regarding him with a carefully masked expression. "You drink too much, you know that?"

            "Not enough, if you ask me," he muttered darkly, taking another sip. "Not at all."

            "It's not going to help, you know," she pointed out.

            He scowled at her. "Since when have you become the expert on these things?"  
  


            "Since I saw what it does to you."

            "And what does it do, pray tell?"

            She didn't answer.

            "You have no idea what it's like, have you?" he accused, his voice controlled. "You have absolutely no idea what they're putting me through, what they're making me do. I'll tell you this much: it's horrible."

            "Tell me the rest of it, then," she challenged, eyes blazing. "Tell me everything, because I am sick of sitting here, watching you drown your woes in a glass, not knowing anything at all. I am sick of seeing you deteriorate, sick of seeing those circles under your eyes, your trembling hands, sick of it all, because it's not what it's supposed to be!"

            He shot her a glance. "What is it supposed to be?"

            She bit her lip, avoiding his cold eyes, and shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. I just know... it's not supposed to be like this."

            He sighed. "I can't tell you."

            "Think I can't handle it?" 

            He regarded her with hard, cold eyes. "Frankly, yes."

            She shook her head. "I grew up the same way you have. I could understand; if you allowed me to."

            "No, you couldn't."

            "Try me."

            He shot her another look, studied her for a moment, and relented. "All right."

            Resting his glass on her bedside table, sitting beside her, he pulled the sleeve of his silk robe up, ever so carefully, revealing to her everything he couldn't describe.

            She gasped loudly, and bit back a sob. His jaw tensed and he fought the urge to flinch or whimper as she traced his wounds carefully.

            "Where did you get these?" she asked. 

            "At the woods," he answered, through gritted teeth.

            "Liar."

            He shook his head. "I _did_ get them at the woods."

            "Who—what—caused them?"

            "You know very well who."

            She winced, and let his arm go. "This is horrid. Mum and Dad didn't have to go through that…"

            He shrugged, putting the sleeve back on carefully. "Your mum and dad never did give him much room to doubt."

            "And what, do tell, would be the cause of this doubt?" 

            He smirked. "Weakness."

            She gave him a look. "Excuse me?"

            "Weakness."

            "Since when have you been weak?" she demanded.

            "Since I learned that there's more to life."

            "Such as what? A girl? It's not a girl, is it?" she asked, strangely horrified.

            He sighed, reached for his glass and took a sip. "Can't be a boy, now can it?"

            She shuddered. "Stop. You're giving me disturbing mental images."

            He smirked at her. "I know."

            "Who is it?" she queried, genuinely curious now. 

            He only shook his head and smiled, and she thought, not for the first time, that his smile lighted up his entire face. 

            "I'll be off," he said suddenly, standing striaght. "I'll see you tomorrow, all right?"

            She nodded. "All right."

            He stood, and kissed her chastely on the lips, and made his way to the door. 

            "Good night," he said, before finally leaving.

            "Take care of yourself," she called out to him.

            The door shut, and she was left in the room, alone, with the moonlight spilling into the grand windows, the glass on her table, with hardly anything left in it; and she, wondering, if she was their brand of weak, as well, having known that life had a lot more to it than cruelty and malice, having known that she had a lot more to live for. She wondered, if affections towards someone of the same background could kill her.

            She picked up his glass, swirled what's left of it briefly, like he did, and thought bemusedly, as she raised the glass to her lips, he tasted like wine.

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**A/N2: Remember to review! **


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